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TWO WOMEN 



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in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/twowomen1862poem00wool 



TWO WOMEN 



1862. 



A POEM, 



CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. 



(Reprinted from Appletons' Journal.) 




NEW YORK : 
D. APPL.ETON AND COMPANY 

549 and 551 BROADWAY. 



1877. 



T6 3«t* 



COPYRIGHT BY 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1877. 



TWO WOMEN. 

1862. 
ONE. 

Through miles of green cornfields that lusty 
And strong face the sun and rejoice 

In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty 
With pollen from flowers of their choice, 

'Mong myriads down by the river 
Who offer their honey, the train 

Flies south with a whir and a shiver, 

Flies south through the lowlands that quiver 
With ripening grain — 

Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies, 

Who bends to the breeze, while the corn 

Held stiff all his stubborn green lances 
The moment his curled leaf was born ; 

And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping 
The shores of the river whose tide — 



TWO WOMEN. 

Slow moving, brown tide — holds the keeping 
Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping, 
Couched lions, each side. 

Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded, 

Blue innocent maidenly eyes, 
That gaze at the lawless rough-handed 

Young soldiers with grieving surprise 
At oaths on their lips, the deriding 

And jestings that load every breath, 
While on with dread swiftness are gliding 
Their moments, and o'er them is biding 
The shadow of death ! 

Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender 

Small maiden with calm, home-bred air ; 

No deep T tinted hues you might lend her 
Could touch the faint gold of her hair, 

The blue of her eyes, or the neatness 
Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun 

From threads of soft gray, whose completeness 

Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness — 
A lily turned nun. 

Ohio shines on to her border, 
Ohio all golden with grain ; 



THE OTHER. 

The river comes up at her order, 

And curves toward the incoming train ; 

" The river ! The river ! O borrow 
A speed that is swifter — Afar 

Kentucky ! Haste, haste, thou To-morrow 

Poor lads, dreaming not of the sorrow, 
The anguish of war. 



THE OTHER. 

West from the Capital's crowded throng 

The fiery engine rushed along, 

Over the road where danger lay 

On each bridge and curve of the midnight way, 

Shooting across the rivers' laps, 

Up the mountains, into the gaps, 

Through West Virginia like the wind, 

Fire and sword coming on behind, 

Whistling defiance that echoed back 

To mountain guerrillas burning the track, 

" Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do 

To the train that follows, but I go through ! " 



TWO WOMEN. 

A motley crowd — the city thief; 

The man of God ; the polished chief 

Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy; 

The correspondent with quick, sharp eye ; 

The speculator who boldly made 

His fifty per cent, in a driving trade 

At the edge of the war ; the clean lank clerk 

Sent West for sanitary work ; 

The bounty-jumper; the lordling born 

Viewing the country with wondering scorn — 

A strange assemblage filled the car 

That dared the midnight border-band, 

Where life and death went hand-in-hand 

Those strange and breathless days of war. 

The conductor's lantern moves along, 

Slowly lighting the motley throng 

Face by face ; what sudden gleam 

Flashes back in the lantern's beam 

Through shadows down at the rearward door ? 

The conductor pauses ; all eyes explore 

The darkened corner : a woman's face 

Thrown back asleep — the shimmer of lace, 

The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold, 

The flash of jewels, the careless fold 

Of an India shawl that half concealed 



THE OTHER. 

The curves superb which the light revealed ; 
A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm, 
A perfect hand that lay soft and warm 
On the dingy seat ; all the outlines rare 
Of a Milo Venus slumbered there 
'Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold 
Subordinate seemed — unnoticed mould 
For the form beneath. 

The sumptuous grace 
Of the careless pose, the sleeping face, 
Transfixed all eyes, and together drew 
One and all for a nearer view : 
The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod 
On the heels of the gazing man of God ; 
The correspondent took out his book, 
Sharpened his pencil with eager look ; 
The soldiers fought as to who should pass 
The first ; the lord peered through his glass, 
But no sooner saw the sleeping face 
Than he too hasted and left his place 
To join the crowd. 

Then, ere any spoke, 
But all eager gazed, the lady woke. 

Dark-brown, sleepy, velvet eyes, 
Lifted up in soft surprise, 



IO TWO WOMEN. 

A wealth of hair of auburn red, 

Falling in braids from the regal head 

Whose little hat with waving plume 

Lay on the floor — while a faint perfume, 

The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed, 

Tangled within the loosened braid ; 

Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin 

Creamy pallid, the red within 

Mixed with brown where the shadow lies 

Dark beneath the lustrous eyes. 

She smiles ; all hearts are at her feet. 

She turns ; each hastens to his seat. 

The car is changed to a sacred place 

Lighted by one fair woman's face ; 

In sudden silence on they ride, 

The lord and the gambler, side by side, 

The traitor spy, the priest as well, 

Bound for the time by a common spell, 

And each might be in thought and mien 

A loyal knight escorting his queen, 

So instant and so measureless 

Is the power of a perfect loveliness. 



THE MEETING. n 



THE MEETING 



The Western city with the Roman name, 

The vine-decked river winding round the hills, 

Are left behind ; the pearly maid who came 

Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills 

The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea, 

Is riding southward on the cautious train, 

That feels its way along, and nervously 

Hurries around the curve and o'er the bridge, 

Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge — 

The wild adventurous cavalry campaign 

That Morgan and his men, bold riders all, 

Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years, 

So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears, 

That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall, 

When men in city offices feel yet 

The old wild thrill of " Boots and saddles all ! " 

The dashing raid they cannot quite forget 

Despite the hasty graves that silent lie 

Along its route ; at home the women sigh, 

Gazing across the still untrodden ways, 

Across the fields, across the lonely moor, 

" O for the breathless ardor of those days 

When we were all so happy, though so poor ! " 



12 TWO WOMEN. 

The maiden sits alone ; 
The raw recruits are scattered through the car, 
Talking of all the splendors of the war, 
With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone. 
In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view, 
Like opening wood - flower pearled with mo 

dew, 
She shines among them in her radiance pure, 
Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure 
They're very wicked — hoping that the day 
Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away, 
And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies, 
To the far farm-house where her lover lies, 
Wounded — alone. 

The rattling speed turns slow, 
Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go, 
The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down ; 
The young conductor comes — (there was a face 
He noted in the night) — " Madam, your place 
Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town 
We take on other soldiers. If you change 
Your seat and join that little lady, then 
It will not seem so lonely or so strange 
For you, as here among so many men." 
Lifting her fair face from the battered seat, 
Where she had slumbered like a weary child, 



THE MEETING. ] 

The lady, with obedience full sweet 

To his young manhood's eager craving, smiled 

And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way ; 

She followed in her lovely disarray. 

The clinging silk disclosed the arched foot, 

Hidden within the dainty satin boot, 

Dead-black against the dead-white even hue 

Of silken stocking, gleaming into view 

One moment ; then the lady sleepily 

Adjusted with a touch her drapery, 

And tried to loop in place a falling braid, 

And smooth the rippling waves the night had made ; 

While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane 

Set her bright gems to flashing back again ; 

And all men's eyes in that Kentucky car 

Grew on her face, as all men's eyes had done 

On the night-train that brought her from afar, 

Over the mountains west from Washington. 



The Lady (thinking). 

Haply met, 
This country maiden, sweet as mignonette, 
No doubt the pride of some small Western town : — 
Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown, 
So prim — so dull — a fashion five years old ! 



I4 TWO WOMEN. 

The Maiden {thinking). 

How odd, how bold, 
That silken robe — those waves of costly lace, 
That falling hair, the shadows 'neath the eyes, 
Surely those diamonds are out of place — 
Strange, that a lady should in such a guise 
Be here alone ! 

The Lady. 

Allow me, mademoiselle, 
Our good conductor thinks it would be well 
That we should keep together, since the car 
Will soon be overcrowded, and we are 
The only women. — May I have a seat 
In this safe little corner by your side ? 
Thanks ; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet 
So sweet a friend to share the long day's ride !— 
That is, if yours be long ? 

The Maiden. 

To Benton's Mill. 

The Lady. 
I go beyond, not far — I think we pass 
Your station just before Waunona Hill ; 
But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass. 
Do you not love that land ? 



'5 



THE MEETING. 

The Maiden. 

I do not know 
Aught of it. 

The Lady. 
Yes ; but surely you have heard 
Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow, 
Just grass, naught else ; and where the noble herd 
Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred 
For victory — the rare Kentucky speed 
That wins the races ? 

The Maiden. 

Yes; I've heard it said 
They were good worthy horses. — But indeed 
I know not much of horses. 



The Lady. 

Then the land — 
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass, 
The wild free park spread out by Nature's hand 
That scarce an English dukedom may surpass 
In velvet beauty — while its royal sweep 
Over the country miles and miles away, 
Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep 
Their distance from each other, proud array 



1 6 TWO JVOMEA r . 

Of single elms that stand apart to show 

How gracefully their swaying branches grow, 

While little swells of turf roll up and fall 

Like waves of summer sea, and over all 

You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass 

Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass — 

But you will see it. 

The Maiden. 
No ; I cannot stay 
But a few hours — at most, a single day. 

The Lady (u?iheedi?ig). 

I think I like the best. 
Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed, 
The Arab courser of our own new West, 
The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed 
Outstrips e'en time itself. Oh ! when he wins 
The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand 
In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins, 
And those slow, cautious judges on the stand, 
Have counted seconds ! Is it not a thrill 
That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still ? 

The Maiden. 
I ne'er have seen race-horses, or a race. 



THE MEETING. . 17 

The Lady. 
I crave your pardon ; in your gentle face 

I read reproof. 

The Maiden. 

I judge not any man. 

The Lady. 
Nor woman ? 

The Maiden. 

If you force reply, I can 

Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race, 

For gamblers' prizes, seems not worthy place 

For women — nor for men, indeed, if they 

Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play, 

The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance, 

The deadly poison of all games of chance — 

All these are sinful. 

The Lady. 

Ah ! poor sins, how stern 

The judge ! I knew ye not for sins — I learn 

For the first time that ye are evil. Go, 

Avaunt ye ! So my races are a woe — 

Alas ! And David Garrick ! — Where's the harm 

In David? 

The Maiden. 

I know not the gentleman. 



1 8 TWO WOMEN. 

The Lady. 

Nay, he's a play ; a comedy so warm, 

So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can, 

/weep. And must I yield my crystal glass, 

Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine, 

That makes a dreary dinner-party pass 

In rosy light, where after-fancies shine — 

Things that one might have said ? — And then the dance, 

The valse a deux temps, if your partner chance 

To be a lover — 

The Maiden. 

Madam, pray excuse 
My seeming rudeness ; but I must refuse 
To dwell on themes like these. 

The Lady. 

Did I begin 
The themes, or you ? 

The Maiden. 

But / dwelt on the sin, 
And you — 

The Lady. 

Upon the good. Did I not well ? 
I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle. 



THE MEETING. I 9 

The Maiden. 
Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest, 
I bear too anxious heart within my breast ; 
One dear to me lies wounded, and I go 
To find him, help him home with tender care — 
To home and health, God willing. 

The Lady. 

Is it so ? 

Strange — but ah ! no. The wounded are not rare, 

Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war. — 

But he will yet recover ; I feel sure 

That one beloved by heart so good, so pure 

As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star 

Is fortunate. 

The Maiden. 

Not in the stars, I trust. 
We are but wretched creatures of the dust, 
Sinful, and desperately wicked ; still, 
It is in mercy our Creator's will 
To hear our prayers. 

The Lady. 
And do you then believe 
He grants all heart-felt prayers ? One might conceive 
A ease : Suppose a loving mother prays 
For her son's life ; he, worn with life's hard ways, 



20 TWO WOMEN. 

Entreats his God for death with equal power 
And fervor. 

The Maiden. 

It is wrong to pray for death. 

The Lady. 

I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour 
A farmer prays for rain ; with 'bated breath 
A mother, hastening to a dying child, 
Prays for fair weather ? — But you do not deign 
To listen. Ah ! I saw you when you smiled 
That little, silver smile ! I might explain 
My meaning further; but why should I shake 
Your happy faith ? 

The Maiden. 
You could not. 



The Lady. 

Nay, that's true ; 
You are the kind that walks up to the stake 
Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue 
For pardon, and I pray you tell me all 
This tale of yours. When did your lover fall — 
What battle-field ? 



THE MEETING. 21 

The Maiden. 
Not any well-known name ; 
It was not Heaven's pleasure that the fame 
Of well-known battle should be his. A band 
Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land, 
Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way. 

The Lady. 
Guerrillas ? 

The Maiden. 

Yes; John Morgan's. 

The Lady. 

Maybe so, 

And maybe not ; they bear a seven-leagued name 
That many hide beneath ; each shot, each blow, 
Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame 
Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may — 
Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan's men 
Are bold Kentucky riders ; every glen 
Knows their fleet midnight gallop ; every map 
Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks 
Where they have been ; now near, now miles away, 
From river lowland to the mountain-gap, 
Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks 
When they ride by, no well-versed tongues betray 



22 TWO WOMEN. 

Their resting-place ; Kentucky knows her own, 
Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass 
Across her borders north from Tennessee, 
Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass, 
The land of home, the land they long to see, 
The lovely rolling land. We might have known 
That come they would ! 

The Maiden. 

You are Kentucky-bred ? 

The Lady. 

I come from Washington. Nay — but I read 
The doubt you try to hide. Be frank — confess — 
I am that mythical adventuress 
That thrives in Washington these troublous days — 
The country correspondent's tale ? 



The Maiden. 
And — something in your air — 



Your dress — 



The Lady. 

I give you praise 



For rare sincerity. Go on. 



THE MEETING. 



23 



The Maiden. 

Your tone, 
Your words, seem strange. — But then, I've never known 
A woman like you. 

The Lady {aside). 
Yet we are not few, 
Thank Heaven, for the world's sake ! It would starve 
If gray was all its color, and the dew 
Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste 
It seeks the royal purples, and draws down 
The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste, 
And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown 
Upon its brow ; and then, its hands do carve 
The vine-leaves into marble. 

But the hue 
Of thoughts like these she knows not — and in vain 
To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain 
Hear her small story. 

{Speaks.) Did he fall alone, 

Your gallant soldier-boy ? And how to you 
Came the sad news? 

The Maiden. 
A farmer heard him moan 
While passing — bore him to the camp, and there 



2 4 



TWO WOMEN. 



A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word 

Ere the brigade moved on ; which, when I heard, 

I left my mother, ill, for in despair 

He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know 

That they had written, for hot fever drove 

His thoughts with whips of flame. — O cruel woe, 

— O my poor love — 
My Willie ! 

The Lady. 

Do not grieve, fair child. This day 
Will see you by his side — nay, if you will, 
Then lay your head here — weep your grief away. 
Tears are a luxury — yes, take your fill ; 
For stranger as I am, my heart is warm 
To woman's sorrow, and this woman's arm 
That holds you is a loyal one and kind. 
(Thinking.) O gentle maiden-mind, 
How lovely art thou — like the limpid brook 
In whose small depths my child* eyes loved to look 
In the spring days ! Thy little simple fears 
Are wept away. Ah ! could / call the tears 
At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart ! 

— O beautiful lost Faith, 
I knew you once — but now, like shadowy wraith, 
You meet me in this little maiden's eyes, 
And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise 



THE MEETING. 25 

At the great gulf between us. Far apart, 

In truth, we've drifted — drifted. Gentle ghost 

Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast 

Of dreamless ignorance ; I must put out 

My eyes to live with you again. The doubt, 

The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth 

Of the strong mind — the struggle of the seed 

Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth 

Of the blind clods around it sees no need 

For change — nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime ; 

" All things remain as in our fathers' time — 

What gain ye then by growing? " 

" Air — free air ! 
E'en though I die of hunger and despair, 
I go," the mind replies. 

The Maiden (thinking). 

How kind, how warm 
Her sympathy ! I could no more resist 
Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm 
That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed 
My forehead ! strange that so much good should dwell 
With so much ill. This shining, costly dress, 
A garb that shows a sinful worldliness, 
Troubles my heart. 

Ah, I remember well 
2 



2 6 • TWO WOMEN. 

How hard I worked after that letter came 
Telling of Willie — and my sisters all, 
How swift we sewed ! For I had suffered shame 
At traveling in house-garb. 

— I feel a call 
To bring this wanderer back into the fold, 
This poor lost sinner straying in the cold 
Outside the church's pale. Should I not try 
To show her all the sad deficiency, 
The desperate poverty of life like hers, 
The utter falseness of its every breath, 
The pity that within my bosom stirs 
For thinking of the horrors after death 
Awaiting her ? 

The Lady. 

Quite calm, again ? That's well. 
Wilt taste a peach ? My basket holds a store 
Of luscious peaches. Ah ! she weaves a spell, 
This lovely sorceress of fruit ; what more 
Can man ask from the earth ? There is no cost 
Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise 
Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost 
That mythic Asian land of Paradise 
For a poor plebeian apple ! Now a peach, 
Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach, 
Might well have tempted her. 



THE MEETING. 2 7 

Oh, these long hours ! — 

Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers — 

Tea-roses ? 

The Maiden. 

Tangled in your loosened hair 

Are roses. 

The Lady (thinking). 

Nita must have twined them there — 

The opera — I know now ; I have sped 

So swift across the country, my poor head 

Is turned. — The opera ? Yes ; then — O heart, 

How hast thou bled ! [Dashes away tears.'] 

(Speaks.) Sweet child, I pray you tell 

Again your budding romance, all the part 

Where he first spoke. You'd known him long and well, 

Your Willie ? 

The Maiden. 

Yes ; in childhood we had been 
Two little lovers o'er the alphabet ; 
Then one day — I had grown to just sixteen — 
Down in the apple-orchard — there — we met, 
By chance — and — 

The Lady (thinking). 

Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek, 
It comforts me to see that e'en thy meek 
Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush. 



28 TWO WOMEN. 

(Speaks.) Nay, you flush 

So prettily ! Well, must / tell the rest ? 
You knew, then, all at once, you loved him best, 
This gallant Willie ? 

The Maiden (thinking). 
What has come to me 
That I do answer, from reserve so free, 
This stranger's questions ? Yet may it not chance 
My confidence shall win hers in return ? 
I must press on, nor give one backward glance — 
Must follow up my gain by words that burn 
With charity and Christian zeal. 

(Speaks.) Yes; then 

We were betrothed. I wore his mother's ring, — 
And Willie joined the church ; before all men 
He made the promises and vows which bring 
A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength 
From Heaven came to us. Could I endure 
This absence, silence, all the weary length 
Of hours and days and months, were I not sure 
That God was with my Willie ? If on you 
Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears 
Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true, 
In this sad life ; a prayer can calm all fears ; 
Yield all your troubles to your God's control, 



THE MEETING. 



29 



And He will bless you. Ah ! where should /be 
Did I not know that in my Willie's soul 
Came first the love of God, then love for me ? 

The Lady. 
His love for you comes second? 

The Maiden. 

Would you have 
A mortal love come first ! 

The Lady. 

Sweet heart, I crave 
Your pardon. For your gentle Christian zeal 
I thank you. Wear this gem — 'twill make me feel 
That I am something to you when we part. 
But what the " silence ? " 

The Maiden. 

Ten months (they seem years !) 
Since Willie joined the army ; and my heart 
Bore it until his letters ceased ; then tears 
Would come — would come ! 

The Lady. 

Why should the letters cease ? 



30 TWO WOMEN. 

The Maiden. 
I know not ; I could only pray for peace, 
And his return. No doubt he could not write, 
Perplexed with many duties ; his the care 
Of a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight, 
The new recruits are drilled. 

The Lady (t/ii?iki/ig). 

Oh, faith most rare ! 
(Speaks.) Had you no doubts ? 

The Maiden. 

Why should I doubt ? We are 
Betrothed — the same forever, near or far ! 

— He knew my trust 
Was boundless as his own. 

The Lady. 

But still you must 
In reason have known something — must have heard 
Or else imagined — 

The Maiden. 
For three months no word 
Until this letter ; from its page I learned 
That my poor Willie had but just returned 



THE MEETING. 31 

To the brigade, when struck down unaware. 
It seems he had been three months absent. 



The Lady. 

—Where ? 
The Maiden. 
They did not say. I hope to bear him home 
To-morrow ; for in truth I scarce could come, 
So ill my mother, and so full my hands 
Of household cares ; but, Willie understands. 

The Lady (thinking). 
Ciel ! faith like this is senseless — or sublime ! 
Which is it ? 

{Speaks). But three months — so long a time — 

The Maiden. 
Were it three years, 'twould be the same. The troth 
We plighted, freely, lovingly, from both 
Our true hearts came. 

The Lady {thinking). 

And may as freely go — 
Such things have happened ! But I will not show 
One glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trust 
She cherishes ; as soon my hand could thrust 
A knife in the dove's breast. 



32 TWO WO MEAL 

{Speaks.) You'll find him, dear ; 

All will go well ; take courage. Not severe 
His wound ? 

The Maiden. 

Not unto death ; but fever bound 
His senses. When the troops moved on, they found 
A kindly woman near by Benton's Mill ; 
And there he lies, poor Willie, up above 
In her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill : 
" Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love !" — 
Here is his picture. 

The Lady. 

What ! 'tis Meredith ! 
The girl is mad ! — Give it me forthwith ! 
How came you by it ? 

The Maiden. 

Madam, you will break 
The chain. I beg — 

The Lady. 

Here is some strange mistake. 
This picture shows me Meredith Reid. 

The Maiden. 

Yes, Reid 
Is' Willie's name; and Meredith, indeed, 



THE MEETING. 33 

Is his name also — Meredith Wilmer. I 
Like not long names, so gave him, lovingly, 
The pet name Willie. 

The Lady. 
O ye Powers above ! 
The " pet name Willie !" Would you try to chain 
Phoebus Apollo with your baby-love 
And baby-titles ? Scarce can I refrain 
My hands from crushing you ! — 

You are that girl, 
Then, the boy's fancy. Yes, I heard the tale 
He tried to tell me ; but it was so old, 
So very old ! I stopped him with a curl 
Laid playfully across his lips. " Nay, hold ! 
Enough, enough," I said; "of what avail 
The rest ? I know it all ; 'tis e'er the same 
Old story of the country lad's first flame 
That burns the stubble out. Now by this spell 
Forget it all." He did ; and it was well 
He did. 

The Maiden. 
Never ! oh, never ! Though you prove 
The whole as clear as light, I'd ne'er receive 
One word. As in my life, so I believe 
In Willie ! 



34 TWO WOMEN. 

The Lady. 
Fool and blind ! your God above 
Knows that I lie not when I say that he 
You dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine ! 
He worships me — dost hear ? He worships ?ne, 
Me only ! What art thou, a feeble child, 
That thou shouldst speak of loving ? Haste, aside, 
Lest we should drown you in the torrent wild 
Of our strong meeting loves, that may not bide 
Nor know your dying, even ; feeble weed 
Tossed on the shore — {The maiden faints. 

Why could I not divine 
The truth at first ? {Fans her. 

Fierce love, why shouldst thou kill 
This little one ? The child hath done no ill, 
Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pour 
My gentlest pity — 

The Maiden (recovering). 

Madam, thanks ; no more 
Do I require your aid. 

The Lady (aside). 

How calm she seems, 
How cold her far-off eyes ! Poor little hearts 
The pity of it ! all its happy dreams, 



THE MEETING. 



35 



With a whole life's idolatry to part 
In one short moment. 

(Speaks.) Child, let us be friends ; 

Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate. 
And now, before your hapless journey ends, 
Say, in sweet charity, you do not hate 
Me for my love. Trust me, I'll tend him well ; 
As mine own heart's blood, will I care for him 
Till strong again. Then shall he come and tell 
The whole to you — the cup from dregs to brim — 

How, with undoubting faith 
In the young fancy that he thought was love 
For you, he came a-down the glittering path 
Of Washington society ; above 
The throng I saw his noble Saxon head, 
Sunny with curls, towering among the rest 
In calm security — scorn that is bred 
Of virtue, and that largeness which your West 
With its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons — 
A certain careless largeness in the look, 
As though a thousand prairie-miles it took 
Within its easy range. 

Ah ! blindly runs 
Our fate. We met, we two so far apart 
In every thought, in life, in soul, in heart — 
Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe; 



36 TWO WOMEN. 

I, dark and free ; his days a routine clear, 
Lighted by conscience ; I, in waking dream 
Of colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers, 
The sweep of velvet, and the diamond's gleam, 
A cloud of romance heavy on the air, 
The boudoir curtained from the light of day, 
Where all the highest came to call me fair, 
And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away. 
Was it my fault that Nature chose to give 
The splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes, 
This creamy skin ? And if the golden prize 
Of fortune came to me, should I not live 
In the rich luxury my being craved ? 
I give my word, I no more thought of time — 
Whether 'twas squandered, trifled with, or saved, 
Than the red- rose in all her damask prime. 
Each day I filled with joys full to the brim — 
The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace, 
The ecstasy of music, every whim 
For some new folly gratified, the grace 
Of statues idealized in niches, touch 
Of softest fabrics. Ah ! the world holds much 
For those who love her ; and I never heard 
In all my happy glowing life one word 
Against her, till — he came! 

We met, we loved, 



THE MEETING. 

Like flash of lightning from a cloudless sky, 
So sudden, strange, the white intensity — 
Intensity resistless ! Swift there moved 
Within his heart a force unknown before, 
That swept his being from that early faith 
Across a sea, and cast it on the shore 
Prone at my feet. 

He minded not if death 
Came, so he could but gaze upon my face. 

— But, bending where he lay (the youthful grace 
Of his strong manhood, in humility 
Prone, by love's lightnings), so I bended me 
Down to his lips, and gave him — all ! 

Sweet girl, 
Forgive me for the guiltless robbery, 
Forgive him, .swept by fateful Destiny! 
He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth ; 
I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth, 
No barrier, had it been a thousand-fold 
Stronger than boyish promise, e'er could hold 
Natures like ours ! 

You see it, do you not? 
You understand it all. 

— I had forgot, 
But this the half-way town; the train runs slow, 



37 



3 8 TWO WOMEN. 

No better place than this. But, ere you go, 

Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl. 

I ask you not to speak, for words would seem 

Too hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dream 

Of girlhood has dissolved before the heat 

Of real love, you will forgive me, sweet. 

The Maiden. 
I fail to comprehend you. Go ? Go where ? 

The Lady. 
Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train; 
'Twill bear you safely. To go on were pain 
Most needless — cruel. 

The Maiden. 
I am not aware 
That I have said aught of returning. Vain 
Your false and evil story. I have heard 
Of such as you ; but never, on my word 
As lady and as Christian, did I think 
To find myself thus side by side with one 
Who flaunts her ignominy on the brink 
Of dark perdition ! 

Ah ! my Willie won 
The strong heart's victory when he turned away 
From your devices, as I know he turned. 



THE MEETING. 39 

Although you follow him in this array 

Of sin, I know your evil smiles he spurned 

With virtuous contempt — the son of prayers, 

The young knight of the church ! My bosom shares 

His scorn ; take back your ring, false woman. Go ! 

Move from my side. 

The Lady. 

Dear Heaven, now I know 
How pitiless these Christians ! 

Unfledged girl, 
Your little, narrow, pharisaic pride 
Deserves no pity; jealousy's wild whirl 
Excuse might be, since that is born of love ; 
But this is scorn, and, by the God above, 
I'll set you in your place ! 

Do you decide 
The right and wrong for this broad world of ours, 
Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyes 
Veiled o'er with prejudice are yet so wise 
That they must judge the earth, and call it good 
Or evil as it follows their small rules, 
The petty, narrow dogmas of the schools 
That hang on Calvin ! 

Doubtless prairie-flowers 
Esteem the hot-house roses evil all ; 



4 TWO WOMEN. 

But yet I think not that the roses should 
Go into mourning therefor ! 

Oh, the small, 
Most small foundation for a vast conceit ! 
Is it a merit that you never learned 
But one side of this life ? Because you dwelt 
Down in a dell, there were no uplands sweet, 
No breezy mountain-tops ? You never yearned 
For freedom, born a slave ! You never felt 
The thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasy 
Of mere existence that strong natures know, 
The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glow 
Of blood that sunward leaps ; but, in your dell, 
You said : " This is the world. If all, like me, 
Walked on this one straight line, all would go well !" 

O fool ! O blind ! 
O little ant toiling along the ground ! 
You cannot see the eagle on the wind 
Soaring aloft ; and so you go your round 
And measure out the earth with your small line, 
An inch for all infinity ! " Thus mine 
Doth make the measure ; thus it is." 

Proud girl ! 
You call me evil. There is not a curl 
In all this loosened hair which is not free 
From sin as your smooth locks. Turn ; look at me ! 



THE MEETING. 4I 

I flout you with my beauty ! From my youth 
Beside my mother's chair, by God's own truth, 
I've led a life as sinless as your own. 
Your innocence is ignorance ; but I 
Have seen the Tempter on his shining throne, 
And said him nay. You craven weaklings die 
From fear of dangers I have faced ! I hold 
Those lives far nobler that contend and win 
The close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin, 
Than those that go untempted to their graves, 
Deeming the ignorance that haply saves 
Their souls, some splendid wisdom of their own ! 

You fold 
Yourself in scornful silence ? I could smile, 

childish heart, so free from worldly guile, 
Were I not angered by your littleness. 

You judge my dress 
The garb of sin ? Listen. I sat and heard 
The opera ; by chance there fell a word 
Behind me from a group of men who fill 
Night after night my box. My heart stood still. 

1 asked— they told the name. "Wounded," they 

said, 
" A letter in the journal here." I read, 
Faced them with level eyes ; they did not know, 
But wondered, caught "the truth, to see me go 



4 2 



TWO WOMEN. 



Straight to my carriage. " Drive ! The midnight train." 
We reached it, breathless. 

Had I worn fair white, 
A ballroom-robe, I'd do the same to gain 
One moment more of time. 

The Maiden. 

And by what right — 
Are you his wife ? 

The Lady. 

I am not ; but to-night 
I shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child, 
Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier's oath, 
I would not keep him. No Omphale I, 
Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth, 
And then, when called, he went from me — to die 
If need be. I remember that I smiled 
When they marched by ! 

Love for my country burns 
Within my heart ; but this was love for him. 
I could not brook him, one who backward turns 
For loving wife ; his passion must not dim 
The soldier's courage stern. Then I had wealth, 
The golden wealth left me by that old man 
Who called me wife for four short months ; by stealth 
He won me, but a child ; the quiet plan 



THE MEETING. 



43 



Was deftly laid. I do not blame him now. 

My mother dead — one kind thought was to save 

My budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vow 

I made was soon dissevered by the grave, 

And I was left alone. Since then I've breathed 

All pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun, 

At heart as innocent as they ; red-wreathed 

My careless life with roses, till the one 

Came ! Then the red turned purple deep, the hope 

Found itself love ; the rose was heliotrope. 

There needed much 
To do with lawyers' pens ere I could give 
My hand again ; so that dear, longed-for touch 
Was set by me for the full-blooming day 
When Peace shall drive the demon War away 
Forever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live, 
Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more — no 

more. 
All my own heart's life will I gladly pour 
For one small hour of his. — Wait — wait — I fly 
To thee, my love, on swiftest wings ! Thy cry 
The depths of grief too hot for tears doth move : 
" Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love ! " 

The Maiden. 
It was not you he called ! 



44 TWO WOMEN. 

The Lady. 
Ah ! yes. 

The Maiden. 

He is 

Not false ; I'll ne'er believe it, woman. 

The Lady. 

His 

The falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptorn 
By the great flood, and onward madly borne 
With the wild, foaming torrent miles' away. — 
No doubt he loved the violet that grew 
In the still woods ere the floods came ; he knew 
Not then of roses! 

The Maiden. 
Cruel eyes, I say 
But this to all your flashings — you have lied 
To me in all ! 

The Lady. 
Look, then, here at my side 
His letters — read them. Did he love me ? Read ! 
Aha! you flush, you tremble, there's no need 
To show you more ; the strong words blanch your cheek. 
See, here his picture ; could I make it speak, 
How it would kill you ! Yes, I wear it there 



THE MEETING. 45 

Close to my heart. Know you this golden hair 
That lies beside it ? 

The Maiden. 
Should he now confess 
The whole — yes, tell me all your tale was true, 
I would not leave him to you, sorceress ! 
I'd snatch him from the burning — I would sue 
His pardon down from heaven. I shall win 
Him yet, false woman, and his grievous sin 
Shall be forgiven. 

(Bows her head upon her hands.) O God let him die 
Rather than live for one who doth belie 
All I have learned of Thee ! 

Train stops suddenly. — Enter Conductor. 

CONDUCTOR. 

The bridge is down, 
The train can go no farther, Morgan's band 
Were here last night ! There is a little town 
Off on the right, and there, I understand, 
You ladies can find horses. Benton's Mill 
Is but a short drive from Waunona Hill. — 
Can I assist you ? 

The Maiden. 

Thanks ; I must not wait. [Exit. 



4 6 TWO WOMEN. 

The Lady. 
Yes ; that my basket — that my shawl. O Fate ! 
How burdened are we women ! Sir, you are 
Most kind ; and may I trouble you thus far ? 
Find me the fleetest horses; I must reach 
Waunona Hill this night. I do beseech 
All haste ; a thousand dollars will I give 
For this one ride. \_Excunt. 

A Soldier. 
Say, boys, I'd like to live 
Where I could see that woman ! I could fight 
A regiment of rebels in her sight — 
Couldn't you ? 

The Others. 
Yes — yes ! [Exeunt omnes. 



THE DRIVE. 

The Lady {thinking). 
O fair Kentucky ! border-land of war, 
Thou rovest like a gypsy at thy will 
Between the angry South and stubborn North. 



THE DRIVE. 



47 



Across thy boundaries many times from far 

Sweep Morgan's men, the troopers bold who fill 

Ohio with alarm ; then, marching forth 

In well-drilled ranks with flag, and fife, and drum, 

From camp and town the steady blue-coats come, 

March east, march west, march north, march south, 

and find 
No enemy except the lawless wind. 
No sooner gone — Lo ! presto through the glen 
Is heard the midnight ride of Morgan's men: 
They ford the rivers by the light of stars, 
The ringing hoofs sound through the mountain-pass ; 
They draw not rein until their glad huzzas 
Are echoing through the land of the Blue Grass. 

— O lovely land, 
O swell of grassy billows far and near, 
O wild, free elms, whose swaying arms expand 
As if to clasp me, hold my love as dear 
As thine own son ! I hasten to his side — 
Ye roads, lie smooth ; ye streams, make safe the ford ; 
O chivalrous Kentucky, help the bride 
Though thou hast wounded with thy rebel sword 
The foeman bridegroom ! 

• • • • « .... 

.... Can it be that girl 
Who rides in front ? I thought her left behind 



4 8 TWO WOMEN. 

In that small town, Ciel ! would I could hurl 

The slim thing down this bank ! Would I could 

bind 
Those prim, long-fingered, proper hands of hers 
Behind her drooping, narrow-shouldered back, 
And send her home ! A heart like that transfers 
Its measured, pale affections readily, 
If the small rules it calleth piety 
Step in between them. Otherwise, the crack 
Of doom would not avail to break the cord 
Which is not love so much as given word 
And fealty, that conscientiousness 
Which weigheth all things be they more or less, 
From fold of ribbon to a marriage-vow, 
With self-same scales of duty. Shall I now 
Ride on and pass her — for her horse will fail 
Before the hour is out ? Of what avail 
Her journey? 

(Speaks.) Driver, press forward. — Nay, stop — 
(Aside.) O what a child am I to waver thus ! 
I know not how to be ungenerous, 
Though I may try — God knows I truly tried. 
What's this upon my hand ? Did a tear drop ? 

(Speaks.) By your side 

Behold me, maiden ; will you ride with me ? 
My horses fleet and strong. 



THE DRIVE. 

The Maiden. 

I thank you — no. 

The Lady {aside). 
She said me nay; then why am I not free 
To leave her here, and let my swift steeds go 
On like the wind ? 

{Speaks) Ho ! driver — 

{Aside.) But, alas ! 

I cannot. 

{Speaks.) Child, my horses soon will pass 
In spite of me ; they are so fleet they need 
The curb to check them in their flying speed. 
Ours the same journey : why should we not ride 
Together ? 

The Maiden. 
Never T 

The Lady. 
Then I must abide 
By your decision. — Driver, pass. 

{Thinking.) I take 

Her at her word. In truth, for her own sake 
'Twere charity to leave her, hasten on, 
Find my own love, and with him swift be gone 
Ere she can reach him ; for his ardor strong 
3 



49 



5Q TWO WOMEN. 

(Curbed, loyal heart, so long!), 
Heightened by fever, will o'ersweep all bounds, 
And fall around me in a fiery shower 
Of passion's words.— And yet— this inner power— 
This strange, unloving justice that surrounds 
My careless conscience, will not let me go ! 

(Speaks.) Ho ! 

Driver, turn back. 

— Maiden, I ask again — 
I cannot take advantage. Come with me ; 
That horse will fail you soon — ask; both these 

men 
Will tell you so.— Come, child — we will agree 
The ride shall count as naught ; nay, when we reach 
The farm-house, all shall be as though no speech 
Had ever passed between us — we will meet 
Beside his couch as strangers. 

(Speaks) There's defeat 

For thee, O whispering tempter ! 

The Maiden (to the men). 

Is it true ? 
Will the horse fail ? 

One of the Men. 
Yes. 



THE DRIVE. 5I 



The Maiden. 



Madam, then with you 
I needs must ride. — I pray you take my share 
Of payment ; it were more than I could bear 
To be indebted to you. 

The Lady. 

Nay — the sum 
Was but a trifle. 

(Aside.) Now forgive me, truth. 

But was it not a trifle to such wealth — 
Such wealth as mine ? 

(Speaks.) Heard you that distant drum 

Borne on the wind a moment ? Ah ! our youth 
Is thrilled with the great pulses of this war. 
How fast we live — how full each crowded hour 
Of hot excitements ! Naught is done by stealth, 
The little secrecies of other days 
Thrown to the winds ; the clang and charge afar 
On the red battle-field, the news that sways 
Now to, now fro, 'twixt victory and defeat ; 
The distant cry of " Extra ! " down the street 
In the gray dawnings, and our breathless haste 
To read the tidings — all this mighty power 
Hath burned in flame the day of little things, 



52 TWO WOMEN. 

Curled like a scroll — and now we face the kings, 
The terrible, the glorious gods of war. 
— The maid forgets her shyness ; wherefore waste 
One moment when the next may call him forth 
Ne'er to return to her? The dear old North 
May take her lover — but he shall not go 
With lips unkissed to meet his Southern foe ; 
Her last embrace will cheer him on his round 
Now back, now forth, over the frozen ground 
Through the long night. 

— And when the hasty word 
" Only one day; be ready, love," is heard, 
The soft consent is instant, and there swells 
Amid the cannonade faint wedding-bells 
From distant village ; then, as swift away 
The soldier bridegroom rides — he may not stay. 
And she ? — She would not keep him, though the 

tears 
Blind her sweet eyes that follow him, and fears 
Crowd her faint heart and take away her breath, 
As on her white robe falls the shade of Death 
That waits for him at Shiloh ! 

O these days ! 
When we have all gone back to peaceful ways, 
Shall we not find sweet Peace a little dull ? 
— You do not speak. 



THE DRIVE. 53 



The Maiden. 
Madam, my heart is full 



Of other thoughts. 



The Lady. 
Of love ? — Pray — what is love ? 
How should a woman love ? — Although we hate 
Each other well, we need not try to prove 
Our hate by silence — for there is a fate 
Against it in us women ; speak we must, 
And ever shall until we're turned to dust, 
Nay — I'm not sure but even then we talk 
From grave to grave under the churchyard-walk — 
Whose bones last longest — whose the finest shroud- 
And — is there not a most unseemly crowd 
In pauper's corner yonder ? 

— You are shocked ? 
You do not see, then, that I only mocked 
At my own fears — as those poor French lads sang 
Their gayest songs at the red barricade, 
Clear on the air their boyish voices rang 
In chorus, even while the bayonet made 
An end of them. — He may be suffering now — 
He may be calling — 

There! I've made a vow 
To keep on talking. So, then — tell me, pray, 
How should a woman love ? 



54 TWO WOMEN. 

The Maiden. 

I can but say 

How I do love. 

The Lady. 

And how ? 

The Maiden. 

With faith and prayer. 

The Lady. 

I, too ; my faith is absolute. We share 

That good in common. I believe his love 

Is great as mine, and mine — oh, could I prove 

My love by dying for him, far too small 

The test; I'd give my love, my soul, my all, 

In life, in death, in immortality, 

Content in hell itself (if there be hells — 

Which much I doubt) — content, so I could be 

With him ! 

The Maiden. 

Is it a woman's tongue that tells 
This blasphemy ? When I said faith, I meant 
A faith in God. 

The Lady. 
And God is love ! He sent 
This love that fills my heart. Oh, most divine — 
Oh, nearest to him of all earthly things, 



THE DRIVE. 

A love that passeth self — a love like mine 
That passeth understanding. The bird sings 
Because it is the only way he knows 
To praise his Maker ; and a love that flows 
Like mine is worship, too — a hymn that rolls 
Up to the God of Love, who gave us souls 
To love with. Then the hidden sacrifice ; 
It formed a part of worship once, and I 
Do hold it now the part that deepest lies 
In woman's love, the dim sanctuary 
Behind the veil, holy of holies, kept 
E'en from the one she loves : all told, except 
This mystic feeling which she may not know 
How to express in words — the martyr's glow 
Idealized — the wish to give him joy 
Through her own suffering, and so destroy 
All part that self might play — to offer pure 
Her love to her heart's idol. Strange, obscure, 
Sacred, but mighty, is this longing ; I 
Can feel though not define it. I would die 
To make him happy ! 

The Maiden. 
As his happiness 
Depends on me, then can you do no less 
Than yield him to me — if you love him thus. 



55 



56 



TWO WOMEN. 



The Lady {thinking). 

" As," said she ? Heart, but this is fabulous, 
This calm security of hers ! 

(Speaks.) Why, child, 

Hast never heard of passion, and its wild, 
Impetuous, unreasoning assault 
On souls that know not their own depths ? The 

fault 
Not his : he was but young, he did not know 
Himself. Might he not love me even though ■ 
Thou wert the best ? Have pity ! I appeal 
To all the woman in thee. Dost thou feel 
That one touch of his hand would call the blood 
Out from thy heart in an o'erwhelming flood 
To meet it ? 

The Maiden. 

Nay, I know not what you speak. 

The Lady. 

Thou dost not, that I see. Thy pearly cheek 
Keeps its fair white. 

Sweet child, he's that and more 
To me. Ah, let me kneel ; thus I implore 
That thou wouldst yield him to me — all the right 
His boyhood promise gave thee. 



THE DRIVE. 

The Maiden. 

In the sight 
Of Heaven we are betrothed ; I cannot break 
My word. 

The Lady. 

Oh, not for mine, but for his sake ! 
He loves me ! 

The Maiden. 

Only madness, that will burn 
And die to ashes ; but, the fever past, 
The old, pure love will steadfastly return 
And take its rightful place. 

The Lady. 

But should it last, 
This fever-madness ? should he ask your grace, 
And say he loved me best ? 

The Maiden. 

Then, to his face 
I'd answer, Never ! What ! leave him to sin ? 

The Lady. 
And what the sin ? 

The Maiden. 

You ! you ! You have no faith, 



57 



5 8 TWO WOMEN. 

No creed, that I can learn. .The Bible saith 
All such are evil. 

The Lady {aside). 
Why did I begin 
Such hopeless contest ? 

(Speaks.) Child, if he should lie 

Before us now, and one said he must die 
Or love me, wouldst thou yield? 

The Maiden. 

Never ; as dead 
He would be in God's hands ; living — 

The Lady. 

In mine. 

The Maiden. 
That is, in atheism. 

The Lady. 

Have I said 
Aught atheistical ? Because my faith 
Is broader than its own, this conscience saith 
I am an atheist ! Ah, child, is thine 
A better faith ? Yet, be it what it may, 
Should he now lie before us here, and say 
He loved thee best, I'd yield him though my heart 



THE DRIVE. 



59 



Should stop — though I should die. Yea, for his sake, 
To make him happy, I would even take 
Annihilation ! — let the vital spark 
Called soul be turned to nothing. 

The Maiden. 

Far apart 
Our motives ; mine is clear with duty — 



The Lady. 



Dark 



And heavy mine with love. 



The Maiden. 

You talk of death 
With frequent phrase, as though a little thing, 
A matter merely of the will and breath, 
It were to face the judgment, and the King 
Who has not summoned you. Your flippant tongue 
Rolls out its offers as a song is sung, 
And, both mean nothing; for the chance to die 
For one we love, that glorious gift, comes now 
But rarely in this life that you and I 
Must bear our part in. Thus, no empty vow 
Do / repeat ; and yet, I surely know, 
At duty's call right calmly could I go 
Up the red scaffold's stairs. 



60 two women: 

The Lady. 

I well believe 
Thee, steadfast maiden-voice. Nay, I conceive 
My love, thy duty, are alike — the same 
Self-sacrifice under a various name 
According to our natures. I would yield, 
And thou refuse to yield, from the same love ; 
I'd have him happy here, and thou — above. 
For thus we look at life. 

The book is sealed 
That holds our fate — we may not look within ; 
But this I know, that, be it deadly sin 
Or highest good, he loves me ! 

The Maiden. 

There are loves — 

And loves ! 

The Lady. 

So be it. All this word-work proves 
Nothing. Then let it end. Though there's a charm 
In speech — "but you are tired. 'Twill be no harm 
To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed 
(Poor shoulder !) is not orthodox. 

The Maiden. 

Indeed, 
I need not rest. 



THE DRIVE. 6 1 

The Lady. 
Well, then, I'm half asleep 
Myself, and you the silent watch may keep. — 
{Thinking.) I've whiled the time away; but, thou dear 

God, 
Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod 
The toiling moments through my heart ! I pray 
(For I believe that prayer may aid the soul, 
Though not the body nor the fixed control 
Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway 
E'en as I saw him last, when, at my feet, 
He lavished his young heart in burning tide 
Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy, 
But his, I pray this prayer ; do thou destroy 
All my own part in it. — Ah, love, full sweet 
Shall be our meeting. Lo ! the longed-for bride 
Comes — of her own accord. There is no bliss, 
Even in heaven, greater than the kiss 
That I do keep for thee ! 

The Maiden {thinking). 

O God, thy will 
Be done — yes, first of all, be done ! (Bide still, 
Thou wicked, rebel heart !) Yet, O Lord, grant 
This grace to me, a lowly supplicant. 
My mind is vexed, evil thoughts do rage 



62 TWO WOMEN. 

Within my soul ; Merciful, assuage 
The suffering I endure !— If it is true 
My poor boy loves this woman— and what is 
Is ever for the best — create anew 
Her soul that it may surely leaven his 
With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm 
And win her to Thy fold, that she may be 
A godly woman, graced with piety, 
Turned from the error of her ways, the harm 
Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm 
Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I 
Think her too brown) changed by humility 
To decorous sweetness. — 

Lord, look in my heart ; 
I may not know myself; search every part, 
And give me grace to say that I will yield 
My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed 
In his swift preference. 

Yet, in pity, hear — 
Change her, Lord— make her good ! [ 



The Lady {thinking). 

Is that a tear 
On her soft cheek ? She has her little griefs, 
Then, as the children have ; their small beliefs 



THE FARM-HOUSE. 

Are sometimes brought to naught — no fairies live, 
And dolls are sawdust ! — 

Love, I do forgive 
Your boyish fancy, for she's lily fair ; 
But no more could content you now than dew 
Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare, 
Fine drops that string the grass-blade's shining hue, 
Upon the brink. — Dearest, I call ! Oh, see 
How all my being rushes toward thee ! Wait, 
E'en though before thine eyes bright heaven's gate 
Let out its light : angels might envy thee 
Such love as I shall give thee — wait ! oh, wait ! 



63 



THE FARM-HOUSE. 

The Lady. 
The sun is setting, we have passed the mill 
Some time ; the house is near Waunona Hill, 
But the road smooth this way — which doth account 
For the discrepancy of names. The gleam 
Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass 
Of purple thunder-cloud ; when we surmount 
This little swell of land, its slanting beam 



64 TWO WOMEN. 

Will light up all the lances of the grass, 
The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass. 

That is the house off on the right ; I know 
By intuition. 

The Maiden. 
It may hold — the worst ! 

The Lady. 
Art faint ? 

The Maiden. 
'Twill pass. Lady, I enter first- 
First and alone ! 

The Lady. 
Child, if I thought his heart 
Longed for the sight of you, I'd let you go; 
Nay, I would make you ! As it is— 

But no, 
It cannot be. 

The Maiden {clasping her hands). 
Lord, give me strength ! I yield ; 
Go you the first. Ah ! [Sods. 

The Lady. 

Yours the nobler part ; 
/ cannot yield. (And yet it is for him 



THE FARM-HOUSE. 



65 



I hold this " cannot " firm.) What might you wield 
With that unflinching conscience-power ! See, dim 
Mine eyes — 

There ; we will go together — thus ! 
God help us both ! [They enter the house. 

Yes, we have come, we two, 
His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous, 
The fever ? Where — above ? That stair ? We go — 
Come, child — come, child. 

Woman of the House. 

Dear ladies, you should know 
Before — 

The Lady. 
Come ! 

Woman of the House. 
He— 

The Lady. 

Child, must I wait for you 
Here at his door! 

The Maiden. 
I come ; but something cold 
Has touched my heart. 



66 TWO WOMEN. 

The Lady. 

Then stay, coward! 

The Maiden. 

Nay, hold ; 

I come. \_They mount the stairs together. 

{Crying out above.) But he is dead— my Willie ! 

The Lady {above). 

Fate, 
You've gained the day at last ! Yes, he is dead ! 



B Y THE DEAD. 

Woman of the House. 
He died last night at three — quite easily. 



The Lady. 

Alone ? 



Woman of the House. 

A surgeon from the camp was here. 



BY THE DEAD. 
The Lady. 



67 



Where is the man ? 

Woman of the House. 
Gone back. 

The Lady. 

Send for him. 

See, 
Here is a trifle ; though it cannot clear 
Our debt to you, yet take it. 

Woman of the House. 

But you give 
Too much. 

The Lady. 

Keep it. 

The Maiden {kneeling by the bedside). 
O Willie ! can I live 
Without you ? Love, my love, why are you dead 
And I alive ? O noble, golden head, 
Whose every curl I know, how still you lie 
On this poor pillow, and how dreamlessly 
You sleep ! But waken now ; look on me, dear ; 
Open those close-shut eyes, for I am here — 



68 TWO WOMEN. 

Yes, here all this long way from home. Oh, speak — 
Speak to me, Willie. — Ah, how cold his cheek — 
How icy cold ! O God ! he's dead, he's dead ! 

Woman of the House. 
Yes, he is dead, dead as King David. Truth 
He was right handsome for a Yankee youth — 
Rode his horse well. 

The Lady {aside). 

I love you, Meredith. 

The Maiden. 
What's this upon the table near his hand ? 

[Opens the package. 
My picture — yes, my letters — all ! Herewith 
I know — I know he loved me ! 

The Lady (thinking). 

Cover worn, 
Creased in its folds, unopened, and forlorn — 
Yes, I remember it. I would not look 
Within ; — unopened since that day. 

He took 
The poor thing forth with dying loyalty 
To send to her. 



BY THE DEAD, 69 

The Maiden. 
O Lord, I understand 
Thy purpose ; 'twas to try my faith. I kneel 
To thank thee that mercy doth reveal 
The whole to my poor heart. He loved me — me, 
Me only ! 

Woman of the House. 

Would you like to see the wound 
Here in his arm ? — Why, if she hasn't swooned ! 

The Lady. 
Take her below, and care for her, poor child ! 

\_Exit woman, carrying the maiden in her arms. 
Brain, art thou wild, 
Distraught, that thou canst all things calmly hear 
And answer, when my pulses reel, my heart 
Stands still, and cold through every vital part 
Death breathes his icy breath ? 

Oh, my own love ! 
I clasp thee in my arms, come back to me ! 
O ice-cold lips I kiss, ye are as dear 
As ever ! Come ! Thy idol waits for thee, 
Waits — weeps. 

Dost thou not hear me there above 
Where thou hast gone ? Come back and take the bride 
Who nestles weeping, longing, at the side 



7 o TWO WOMEN. 

Of thy deserted body. Oh ! most fair 
Thy earthly tenement, the golden hair 
Curls as when my poor fingers twined it last, 
Thy head upon my breast. O browned cheek ! 
Can I not warm thee with mine own? Oh, speak — 
Speak to me, Meredith ! 

Poor wounded arm, 
Dear blood ; here will I hold thee close and warm 
Upon my heart. Dost thou not feel me now ? 
And now ? And now ? Do I not hold thee fast ? 
Hast thou not longed for me ? 

I gave my vow 
To be thine own. See! I am come. My hand 
I lay in thine. Oh, speak to me ! Command 
My every breath ; full humbly I obey, 
The true wife longs to feel a master's sway, 
Longs to do homage, so her idol prove 
Ruler — nay, despot of her willing love. 
Didst thou not hear me whisper while she spake. 
" I love thee — oh, I love thee, Meredith? " 
I would not that her childish grief should break 
Thy peace up in thy heaven ; even there 
Thou longest for my love, and near the stair 
Where souls come up from earth thou'rt standing now 
Watching for me. O darling, from thy brow 
I catch the radiance ! 



BY THE DEAD. 7I 

She is not thine, 
Thou art not hers. The boyish pledge wherewith 
She strives to hold thee was the radiancy 
Of early dawn, which now the mighty sun 
Hath swept away in fervent heat ; nor thee 
Nor her it binds. Her pretty youth will run 
Its swift course to some other love; Fate 
Ne'er lets such sweet maids pine, though they may 

try; 
A few months lent to tearful constancy, 
The next to chastened sorrow, slow decline 
To resignation ; then, the well-masked bait 
Of making some one happy, though at cost 
Of sweet self-sacrifice, which soon is lost 
In that content which, if not real love, 
Looks strangely like it ! But why should I prove 
What thou dost know already, freed from time 
And finite bonds, my darling ? 

Love sublime, 
Art thou not God ? Then let him down to me 
For one short moment. See ! in agony 
I cling to the cold body ; let him touch 
Me once with this dear hand ; it is not much 
I ask — one clasp, one word. 

What! nothing? Then 
I call down vengeance on this God of men 



7 2 TWO WOMEN. 

Who makes us at his will, and gives us hearts 

Only to rend them in a hundred parts, 

And see them quiver — bleed ! I, creature, dare 

To call aloud for justice ; my despair 

Our great far-off Creator doth arraign 

Before the bar to answer for the pain 

I suffer now. It is too much — too much ! 

woe ! woe ! woe ! the human soul can such 
Intensity of sorrow not withstand, 

But, lifting up on high its fettered hand, 
Can only cry aloud in agony, 
And blindly, wildly curse its God and die ! 
How dare you take, 
You Death, my love away from me ? The old, 
The weak, the loveless, the forlorn, were there 
In crowds, and none to miss them. But your 

cold 
And heartless eye did mark that he was fair, 
And that I loved him ? From your dreadful hold 

1 snatch my darling, and he yet shall wake 
From out your sleep by my caresses. See, 
See how I love him ! Ah, shall I not win 
His life back with my lips, that lovingly 

Do cling to his? And, though you do begin 
Your icy work, these arms shall keep him warm — 
Nay, more : my loving verily disarm 



BY THE DEAD. 



73 



E'en you, King of Terrors T You shall turn 
And give him back to me ; a heart shall burn 
Under your ribs at last from very sight 
Of my fierce, tearless grief. 

— O sorry plight 
Of my poor darling in this barren room, 
Where only his gold curls do light the gloom ! 
But we will change all that. This evening, dear, 
Shall be our bridal : wilt thou take me, here, 
And thus ? — in this array — this falling hair — 
Crushed robes ? And yet, believe me, I am fair 
As ever. 

Love, love, love ! oh, speak to me ! 
I will not listen in my misery 
If thy heart beat — 

God! it is cold! 

YFalls to the floor. 

Enter the Surgeon. 

Surgeon. 



Art ill 



Madam ? — 



The Lady {rising). 

Thanks, sir. But sorrow cannot kill. 
Would that it could ! Nay, I sit by his side — 
Thus. Now tell all—all— all. 

4 



74 



TWO WOMEN. 



Surgeon. 

You cannot hide 
The deadly faintness that has paled your cheek ; 
Let me get — 

The Lady. 
Nothing. Nothing can avail, 
Good sir; my very heart's blood has turned pale. 
Struck by God's lightning, do you talk to me 
Of faintness ? Only tell your tale — speak, speak ; 
You saw him die ? 

Surgeon. 
I did ; right tranquilly 
He passed away this morning, with your name 
Upon his lips — for you are Helena ? 

The Lady. 
I am. 

Surgeon. 
I saw your picture. 
{Aside.) Yes, the same. 

Hair, eyes. What Titian tints ! 

(Speaks) He made me lay 

Your letters and your picture on his heart 
Before he died ; he would not from them part 
For e'en one moment. 



BY THE DEAD. 75 

The Lady. 

Lift them not, they're mine ; 
My hand alone must touch the holy shrine 
Of love and death where the poor relics lie — 
Darling (bends, and kisses the letters), because you loved 
them ! 

Let them die, 
Go to the grave with him, there on his breast, 
Where I would gladly die too — be at rest 
Forever. — And he spake of me ? 

Surgeon. 

He said 
That you would come, for he had sent you word. 

The Lady. 
I ne'er received it ; 'twas by chance I heard, 
A passing chance. 

Surgeon. 
The lines were down — 



The Lady. 

They never rise again that failed that day, 
And left him dying here ! Go on ; he said- 



And may 



7 6 TWO WOMEN. 

Surgeon. 
That you would come, and grieved that o'er his head 
The turf might close ere you could reach his side 
And give him one last kiss. 

And then — he died. 

The Lady. 
No more ? 

Surgeon. 
No more. Ah, yes, one other thing : 
Short time before, he feebly bade me bring 
That package on the table — but 'tis torn — 
Some one has opened it ! It looked well worn, 
In old, unbroken foldings when I brought 
It from his satchel. Who could thus have wrought 
On other's property ? 

The Lady. 

The owner. — Then 
He said — 

Surgeon. 

To give it you, for you would know 
Its history, and where it swift should go ; 
The name was writ within. 

The Lady {aside). 

Yes, love ; amen ! 
Be it according to thy wish. 



BY THE DEAD. 



77 



{Speaks.) Pray take 

This fee, good sir. I would that for his sake — 
Your kindness to him — I could send your name 
Ringing through all the West in silver fame. — 
At dawn, you said, the burial ? Then leave 
Me here alone with him.. I well believe 
You'll show me further kindness. Speak no word 
Beyond your doctor's art to that poor child 
Who weeps below. I would not that she heard 
Aught more of grief. 

[Exit Surgeon. 
Ah ! all my passion wild 
Has gone ; now come the softening woman tears. — 
Forgive me, great Creator, that I spake 
In my sharp agony. O do thou take 
The bitterness from out my soul ; I know 
Naught, but thou knowest all ! Then let my woe, 
The poor blind woe we short-lived mortals bear, 
Be my sad plea. — 

I knew, through my despair, 
You loved me to the last. Death had no fears 
For you, my love ; you met him with my name, 
As talisman of the undying flame 
That leaps o'er the black chasm of the grave 
And mounts to heaven. But I will not rave, 
When you died softly. 



7 8 TWO WOMEN. 

Ah ! you love me there 
As well as here. God never made me fair 
For nothing ; now, I know the gift he gave 
That I might take my place with you at last, 
Equal in loveliness, though years had passed 
Since you first breathed the air above the skies, 
The beauty-giving air of paradise. 
Fair are you now, my love, but not like me : 
Mine is the goddess-bloom, the rarity 
Of perfect loveliness ; yours, the bright charm 
Of strong young manhood, whose encircling arm 
Could bend me like a reed. Oh, for one clasp 
Of that strong arm ! — 

Hist ! was not that the hasp 
Of the old door below ? She comes ; I hear 
Her light step on the stair. 

Darling, no fear 
Need trouble you upon your couch; to me 
A sacred trust this gentle girl shall be 
Through life. Did you not love her once ? 



The Maiden (entering). 

Forgiveness thus to leave you here so long; 
I did not mean it, but I swooned away 
Before I knew it. 



I pray 



BY THE DEAD. 

The Lady. 
Thanks. There was no wrong ; 



79 



I liked the vigil. 



The Maiden (going to the bedside). 

Sweet those eyes — the brow 
How calm ! I would not bring life to him now 
E'en if I could ; gone to his God — at rest 
From all earth's toil. 

Dear love, upon thy breast 
I lay my hand ; I yield thee back to Him 
Who gave thee to me ; and, if thou hast wrought 
Wrong to our troth in deed, or word, or thought, 
I now forgive thee. Sleep in peace ; the dim, 
Dark grave has its awaking. 

As the hart 
Longed for the water-brooks, so have I yearned 
For token, Willie, that thy love returned 
To me at last. Lo ! now I can depart 
In peace. — My picture, letters ! Thou wast true, 
Wast true to me, thank God ! — 

( Turning}) Madam, to you 

I owe apology. 

The Lady. 

Never! But throw 



So TWO WOMEN. 

Your gentle arms around me— thus. And so 
Give me a blessing. 

The Maiden. 

But I've robbed you — you 
Who loved him also ; though to me was due 
This love of his • at least — 

The Lady. 

Sweet doubter, yes ; 
I grant thee all. But, as I kneel, O bless 
This heart that bows before thee ; all its sin — 
If it be sin— forgive ; and take, within 
Thy pure love, me, thy sister, who must live 
Long years— long years ! O child, who dost forgive 
More than thou knowest, lay thy sister-hand 
In blessing! 

The Maiden. 

Though I do not understand, 
Yet will I thus content thee : Now the Lord 
Bless thee, and keep thee by his holy word ; 
Be gracious to thee, that thy faith increase ; 
Lift up his countenance, and give thee peace, 
Now and forever ! 

The Lady. 
Amen. May it prove — 
This peace— what thou dost think it. 



BY THE DEAD. gl 

The Maiden. 

I must go ; 
The horses wait for me. Now that I know 
He's safe with God, the living claim my care. — 
My mother — ah, full selfish was the love 
That made me leave her so ; I could despair 
Of mine own self, if God were not so good, 
Long-suffering, and kind. 

O could I stay ! 
But I must reach the train at break of day. 
I take my letters and the picture. — Should 
Your duties call you not so soon, oh wait, 
See his dear head laid low by careful hand, 
And say a prayer above the grave. 

The Lady {aside). 

O Fate, 
How doth she innocently torture — rack 
My soul with hard realities ! I stand 
And hear her talk of graves ! — O God, the black, - 
Damp earth over my darling ! 

The Maiden {turning to the bedside). 
Love, farewell! 
I kiss thee once. — Lady, you do not mind ? 
It was but once. I would not seem unkind ; 
I would not wound you needlessly. 



82 TWO WOMEN. 

The Lady {aside). 

O swell, 
Proud heart, to bursting, but gainsay her not ! 

The Maiden. 
I know full well that yours the harder lot, 
Dear lady ; but, forgive me, he was mine 
Long, long before. It were too much to ask 
That I should not be glad his heart returned 
To me, his bride betrothed — to know he yearned 
For me before he died. I cannot mask 
My joy because you loved him too. 

The Lady. 

Nay, thine 

All joy that thou canst take; I would not rob 

Thee of one little hair's-breadth. 

The Maiden [laying her head on the pillow). 

Oh, farewell, 
My love ! my love ! my love ! . [ Weeps. 

The Lady. 

Child, do not sob. 
Come to me — let me hold you ; who can tell, 
Perhaps he hears you, though so still. We'll stand 



EARTH TO EARTH. 83 

Together by his side — thus, hand-in-hand — 
And gaze on his calm face. 

Woman of the House {below). 

The wagon's here. 

The Maiden. 
Alas ! and I must hasten. Kiss me, dear ; 
Indeed, I love you now. 

The Lady. 

And I have tried 
To make you. [They embrace. — Exit Maiden. 

The Lady {throwing herself down beside the body). 
Meredith, art satisfied ? 



EARTH TO EARTH. 

Wrapped in his cloak, they bore him forth at dawn, 
The soldier dead, dead in his gallant strength, 
Young manhood's prime. The heavy fold withdrawn 
Showed his calm face, while all his rigid length 
Lay stiff beneath the covering, the feet 



84 TWO WOMEN. 

Turned up to heaven like marble. Breezes played 
Soft in his curling hair, the fragrance sweet 
Of the wild-brier roses incense made, 
And one bird sang a chant. 

Yet recks it not, 
This quiet body going to its grave, 
Feet foremost, folded hands, if the storm rave 
Or the sun shine. Henceforth nor part nor lot 
Hath it with men — the tale is told, all's o'er ; 
Its place shall know its step, its voice, no more ; 
Its memory shall pass away; its name, 
For all its evil or for all its worth, 
Whether bedecked with reverence or blame, 
Shall soon be clean forgotten. — 

Earth to earth ! 

The lady walked alone. Her glorious hair 
Still held its roses crushed ; the chill despair 
That numbed her being could not dim the light 
Of all her flashing jewels, nor the bright 
Sheen of her draperies. 

The summer sun 
Rose in the east and showed the open grave 
Close at her feet ; but, ere the work begun — 
Lowering the clay (O proud humanity ! 
Is this thy end ?) — she gentle signal gave 



EARTH TO EARTH. 85 

To lay the body down, and, by its side 
Kneeling, kissed brow and lips, fondly as bride 
Might kiss ; and, as she clung there, secretly 
A shining ring left on the cold dead hand, 
And covered it from view ; then slowly rose 
And gave them place. 

But ere the tightening rope 
Had done its duty, o'er the eastern slope 
Rode horsemen, and the little group of those 
Who gazed, drew back, and eyed askance the band. 
They turned, they drew their reins — a sight to see 
Indeed, this lady clad so royally, 
Alone, beside a grave. 

She raised her eyes, 
And the bold leader bared his lofty head 
Before her to his saddle-bow ; the guise 
Of bold, rough-riding trooper could not hide 
The gallant grace that thus its homage paid 
To so much beauty. At his signal mute, 
The little band, Kentucky's secret pride, 
His daring followers in many a raid 
And many a hair-breadth 'scape, made swift salute, 
And, all dismounting, honor to the dead 
Paid silently, not knowing 'twas their own 
Bullet by night that laid him there : — so strange 
The riddle of men's life, its little range 



86 TWO WOMEN. 

Thick with crossed fates, though each one stands alone 
To mortal eyes. 

The rope slackened, the clay 
Had reached its final resting-place. Then she 
Who loved him best, in all her rich array 
Stepped forth, and, kneeling, with her own hands cast 
The first clod on his heart. " I yield to thee, 
Nature, my only love. Oh, hold him fast 

As sacred trust ! 
1 Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! ' " 
Then, rising, with her lovely face upturned 
To the clear sky, where the first sunbeams burned, 
" I know that my Redeemer lives," she said; 
" He that believes on him, though he were dead, 
Yet shall he live ! " 

And so passed from their sight. 

The troopers ride away, 
On to the south ; the men who fill the grave 
With hurried shovelfuls in whispers say, 
" That's part of Morgan's band." And one, a slave, 
Looks down the road, and mutters : " That was him — 
Young Cap'en Morgan's self! These eyes is dim, 
But they knows Morgan ! Morgan ! — what ! why, bless 
Your hearts, / know him, and I know Black Bess — 
'Twas Bess he rode." 



WASHINGTON. 

And now the work is done ; 
On from their northern raid the troopers pass 
Fleet to the south ; the grave is filled, and gone 
Even the slave. 

Forever still, alone, 
Her letters and bright picture on his breast, 
Her sparkling spousal-ring on his dead hand, 
The golden-haired young soldier lies at rest 
Where o'er his head the steely shadows pass, 
Far in the fair Kentucky border-land, 
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass. 



87 



1864. 
WASHINGTON. 

The Lady {with an open letter). 
Married ! Nay, now the little vexing fear 
That troubled the calm hollow of my grief 
With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear 
The certainty — she never loved him. Brief 
Her forgetting — brief! — But I will not chide; 



88 TWO WOMEN. 

All happiness go with thee, gentle bride, 
And of my gold a sister's share ! 

To wed 
Another, and once his ! O golden head 
Under the grass, how jealous is my heart 
Of thy remembrance ! Yet I should be glad 
She loved thee not, for then no evil part 
I played, e'en though unconsciously. 

Oh, mad, 
Mad, mad my love for thee ! the same to-day — 
The same, the same. I could not be a wife — 
I could not stop the sun ! No love but thee, 
My own, my own ! no kiss but thine — no voice 
To call me those sweet names that memory 
Brings back with tears. Ah ! had I any choice, 
I still must love thee down beneath the sod 
More than all else — though grandest soul that God 
Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart 
Is thine, and ever must be thine ; thy name 
Is branded there ! 

Yet must I live my life. 

Servant (announcing). 
The Count. 

The Lady. 
Another ? Ah ! poor fools. The game 



WASHINGTON. 



89 



Doth while away my time. Yes, I do play 
My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned, 
For life is strong, and I am young. — There reigned 
A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay 

down 
Her long-used sceptre ; with her jeweled crown 
Upon her head, she sat and meted out 
Reward and justice ; nor did any doubt 
Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same — 
Her jewels bright? And had she not a name 
Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness ? 
She could not stop — she needs must reign — noblesse 
Oblige ! So I. 

But she — married ! a wife ! 
Who once was his ! Oh, horrible ! a life 
Of treason to his memory, a long 
Lie ! But, ah ! no, she never loved him. / 
Do hold myself as his, and loyally, 
Royally, keep my vow. 

Servant. 
What shall I say, 



Madam ? 



The Lady {speaks). 
Show in the Count. 



9 o TWO WOMEN. 

(Aside.) Ah! well-a-day! 

One must do something. 

The Count (entering). 

Madame, je viens — 



LAKE ERIE. 

The Maiden (rising from her knees). 
My marriage-morning ! Lord, give me thy grace 
For the new duties of a wedded life. 

The letters have I burned ; 
And now — the picture. Oh, dear boyish face, 
One look — the last ! Yet had I been thy wife, 
Willie, I had been true to thee — returned 
All thy affection to the full. 

She said 
Love was " a sacrifice." It is ; as — thus : 
Get thee behind me, Past ! [Burns the picture. 

— Which one of us 
Was truest ? But why ask ? She wronged the dead 
With many lovers — nay, her very dress 
Showed not one trace of sorrow. 



LAKE ERIE. 

— I confess 
I never thought her fair, although the throng 
Do call her so, they tell me. 

— Long, how long 
I wore the heavy crape that checked my breath, 
And went about as one who sorroweth ; 
And I did sorrow ! Slow months passed, and I 
Gave every thought to tearful memory ; 
My grief grew selfish. 

Then — he brought his suit- 
My mother wept and prayed. What right had I 
To crush two lives ? If by the sacrifice 
I make them happy, is it not large price 
For my poor, broken years? How earnestly 
I strove to do the right ! 

The patient fruit 
Of years of prayer came to my aid, and now 
I stand in bridal white. Lord, hear my vow : 
Oh, may I make him happy ! Not a thought 
Of any other love shall mar the troth 
I give for this life. Evils, troubles, naught 
But death, shall part us. Thus the marriage-oath. 
But after— then—O Willie ! 

The Mother (entering). 

Art thou dressed ? 



9i 



9 2 



TWO WOMEN. 



That's well, dear one. Never has mother blessed 
A child more dutiful, more good. 

Come, love, 
The bridegroom waits. 



THE END. 




TWO WOMEN 

A POEM. 

By CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. 

[reprinted from appletons' journal.] 



From the Springfield Republican. 
"Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson's poem, 'Two Women,' begun in the 
January and finished in the February number of Appletons' Journal, is of 
such remarkable quality as to deserve a wider reading than it is likely to have. 
To read it in completeness gives one, beyond its faults — which are principally 
those of imperfect versification and a certain formality of phraseology — a sense 
of power in character-drawing (coloring enough, too, for that matter), in dra- 
matic situation and in expression of deep emotions, which is rarely met with. 
The contrast between the magnificent woman of the world and the Puritan 
country-girl is done in true masterly way, and that the one should continue 
faithful to love through her life, though still reigning in social royalty, while the 
other marries as piously as she mourned, and puts away the dead youth's mem- 
ory forever — is perfectly true to their natures. To present such marked types 
in rivalry, and show the self-abnegation in the rich nature and the innocent self- 
absorption of the narrow nature, was well worth while. The poem would make 
quite a little book, and better merits such treatment than most verses that 
receive it." 

Front the New York Evening Post. 
" In the poem 'Two Women,' the first half of which appeared in the January 
number of Appletons' Journal, and the last half of which has just now come to 
us in the February number of that magazine, there is something, we think, 
which takes the piece out of the category of ordinary magazine-work, and enti- 
tles it to special attention. The poem is long enough, for one thing, to fill a 
little volume, if it were printed as it is the custom to print books of poetry, and 
while it is rugged, faulty, and in many respects defective, it is nevertheless 
strong, dramatic, and full of the flavor of the soil. The two women who gave it 
its name are types of two well-defined classes of American women, but they are 
sharply drawn as individuals also, and their characters are presented with a 
boldness and a degree of distinctness which is possible only at the hands of a 
writer of very considerable dramatic power." 

From the Provideiice "Journal. 
"A story in verse, which enchains the attention with fascinating power, 
. . . produces an intensely emotional effect upon the reader, and at the same 
time an involuntary tribute to the originality and noteworthy ability of the 
writer." 

Fro7n the Detroit Post. 
"One of the most powerful pieces of magazine-writing we have seen in along 
time. . . . Shows a far-reaching knowledge of human nature, a dramatic grasp 
and force, and a power of description and expression seldom seen." 



One Voiume. Cloth. 12mo 

D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers. 



